


His Galatea (Outline)

by VorpalGirl



Series: A Series of Unfortunate WIPs [3]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII, Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Archived From My Tumblr, Inspired By the Greek Myth of Pygmalion and Galatea, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, More Of An Outline Than Proper Fiction Format, Origin Of Another Fic, Pygmalion and Galatea, artist!Genesis Rhapsodos, outline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 09:12:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16971798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VorpalGirl/pseuds/VorpalGirl
Summary: An outline of where my fic "His Galatea" (the Pygmalion and Galatea myth retold, through Genesis and Sephiroth in a fantasy AU) is intended to go, archived from my tumblr.Beware of spoilers for the ending!





	His Galatea (Outline)

**Author's Note:**

> As I was going through my tumblr to try and archive stuff I ran across this lovely original outline for what evolved into my "[His Galatea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4965865/chapters/11403799)" fic - since I rather liked the writing, I'm preserving it here for both myself and any interested readers.
> 
> I do plan to get back to the original fic eventually (I like the idea and it was fun to work on!), but I've no idea when. In the meantime, if you don't mind ~spoilers, feel free to enjoy this preview of where it's intended to go ;)
> 
> (PS I still think it's hilarious that my original note prefacing the tumblr post for this included a note that it "feels more like an outline, and I would probably expand it properly in to a longer one-shot". ONE SHOT. HAHA BOY I DID NOT KNOW MYSELF WELL AT ALL did I :P)

**Genesis**  is the Pygmalion figure: a flamboyant and arrogant sculptor, who is standoffish towards others, and while he has a fan following, snootily turns them all down, so of course, the Goddess curses him for his arrogance, by making him fall in love with own of his own creations: a beautiful sculpture of silvery-white marble, that he named after an ancient mythological figure: _ **Sephiroth**_.  
  
At first, he is merely proud of it, smug, even, for who else could create such beauty, other than he?   
  
Then he gradually becomes fixated on it.   
  
It begins with an obsession with displaying and lighting it  _just so_ , spending increasing time admiring it… then graduates to urges to caress it, even nuzzle against its cold stone surface.   
  
He spends more and more time with it, and gradually finds himself dissatisfied with his other pieces. Then  _very_  dissatisfied. It results in the abandonment of all other projects, because he suddenly feels that nothing else he has ever done nor anything he could ever do again will compare to the beauty of his  _Sephiroth_ _._  
  
He starts to experience strange feelings of jealousy when others look upon it. Then paranoia, an increasingly potent fear that they will steal his Greatest Creation; he hides it away, in a room that only he will allow access to.  
  
Eventually, he finds that he cannot stand to be away from it for more than a few minutes at a time. Begins to eat and drink and even sleep next to it, for he cannot escape the longing for that face, even in his dreams. He rejects the contact of others — the few others who would talk to him by this point, at least — preferring to talk to  _Sephiroth_  instead.    
  
But no matter how much he may talk to it, it can never reply. Because of course, it is merely stone, nothing more than a very beautiful hunk of marble. Having by this point shunned all others in favor of his prized creation, it merely compounds his loneliness.  
  
He is not quite so mad that he doesn’t recognize how mad this is, however. How unhealthy, how  _irrational_. He has all but stopped eating. He barely sleeps, and finds that the only way he can is by literally being at the statue’s base. His hydration comes mostly from wine, now, yet no amount of drunkenness can distract him from the maddening thing of beauty in front of him.   
  
He grows angry at himself — for his obsession, for his madness. And at the statue itself — for being so entrancing, and yet so thoroughly unreachable, no matter how many times he talks to or touches it, no matter how many hours he spends at its feet.  
  
He can love no other thing, he knows — not now that this accursed thing has captured his heart and his mind and his _soul_  so perfectly. He is trapped by it, cannot _escape_  it, can think of nothing else, and the fact that it is  _literally_ of his own making is an infuriating irony that does not go unnoticed by him.   
  
After several days of the obsession having reacted its peak, after days of barely sleeping, feverish and half-starved and slightly drunk again, he has what feels like a moment of clarity:   
  
This is an  _object_.  
  
It is an object, which can never return his affections.  _Never._  It is nothing but finely-carved marble, nothing more than cold, impassive stone. It cannot love him. It can never love anyone. It never could. It never will. Yet he has allowed it to destroy his life, to destroy  _him_.  
  
And for a moment — for a  _moment_  — there is peace in his heart. Because the solution seems obvious, does it not?   
  
If this thing is destroying him, get rid of it. So he walks, as if in a trance, to his studio once again. He finds one of his largest chisels and one of his strongest hammers, and he carries them to the  _Sephiroth_  Room.  
  
And he tells himself that he knows what he will do, because it is simple, it is straightforward, and it is  _necessary._  
  
He will take the chisel, he tells himself, and he will place it against that accursed face, and he will  _break_  it. He will bring the hammer down, and then he will do it again. And again. And again, and again, and again, until there is nothing but  _dust_. But when he looks upon that lovely visage again, he falters.   
  
He feels every part of him tense. Feels himself shake. With anger, and also with fear.   
  
He tells himself it’s irrational. Completely mad. He fears losing it, but he  _shouldn’t_ , damn it! It’s only an  _object_. An object that has  _ruined_  him. That he has  _let_  ruin him. He tells himself that no matter how much he may fear losing it, he fears having lost his reputation, his health, his  _sanity_ , far more.   
  
So he steels himself. And he lifts the chisel and he lifts the hammer and he positions them…Or rather, he tries to. Tries to slam the chisel in — no need for delicacy when one is merely aiming to destroy, right? — but…  
  
He can’t.   
  
He…he  _can’t_.  
  
Oh Goddess. Oh Goddess,  _he can’t do it_. Even as he plunges it towards that precious marble, he finds his own hand reflexively betrays him, pulling it to the side at the last possible fraction of a second. It whiffs past the face of his most beloved and most reviled work, into empty air.  
  
He stares at his own hand in shock. Horror.   
  
He stands there for a long, horrified moment, before he begins to shake again. No —  _tremble_.He feels his grip loosen on the chisel. Feels it slide out of his hand. Feels himself let it go, watching it for what feels like hours as it plunges to the floor.  
  
It hits with a loud, echoing clatter, the clang of metal against tile. The sound breaks the trance. He feels his breath hitch, a moment later, as the full impact of what he just  _failed_ to do, hits him.

_Trapped_ , he realizes. He is trapped. His own hands — the same gifted hands that have always served him so well, the same hands that made this impossible thing — have betrayed him. His feels his chest constrict.

His eyes grow warm, his vision blurring with tears, as he collapses onto his knees. He doesn’t so much sob, as he does choke and gasp for air around the great, painful spasms in his chest. He feels heat on his cheeks, tastes salt on his lips, and realizes he is weeping. He is no longer sure he cares.

His tears falling on   _Sephiroth’s_ base, broken and lonely, he finally gives in and prays to Goddess for help, for relief from this pain and madness that has overtaken him, and as he does, he embraces the base of the statute, pressing his crying face against it, desiring, if he can’t have proper human contact at this point, at least the familiar, soothing coolness of its marble against his flushed cheeks…  
  
…only to feel it grow warm beneath his touch. Which he initially thinks is, surely, just his own heat, or his imagination?  
  
But then it  _moves_.

And Sephiroth –  warm, and moving, and breathing, and  _alive_ – reaches down gently to stroke his hair, and as Genesis lifts his head to look up at him, gaze at him in astonishment, that silken hand moves to under his chin, the thumb gently stroking his cheek. The eyes – now a brilliant, vivid green – look upon him tenderly.  
  
“There is no need to weep any longer, my love,” the former statue says, his voice a melodious baritone. “The Goddess has heard your prayers…”


End file.
